


The Singularity

by pickledfingers



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, BAMF!John, M/M, Science Fiction, Sentient Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickledfingers/pseuds/pickledfingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a man who types with two fingers, John was the last person you might expect to take a job working at the country's most forefront computer research facility, even if that job was 'on-site doctor'. His days are relatively dull and usually only filled with the occasional runny nose or broken arm. Well, dull until he becomes really good friends with a brilliant man called Sherlock who shows John that there might be more to humanity than just being human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenchaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenchaos/gifts).



> Written for the Johnlock Gift Exchange for queenchaos who gave me the prompt 'weird science'. I originally started with Mad scientist!Sherlock and failed to finish that story, and then I remembered this story. I originally wrote this as a very short story (maybe 1000 words?) with original characters a few years ago, and I'd been meaning to re-write it for some time. The rewrite is considerably more science, though. I hope you enjoy it! It's not conventionally weird science, but it's still a little strange to consider the possibility.  
> For those interested, the singularity is a predicted point about 40 years into humanity's future when the progress of technology is so rapid that it will no longer be possible to predict what will happen next. There are some who think this will be shortly followed by computers with brain-like abilities. There are several questions which arise from this, but the big one is this: where does life begin and artificial intelligence end?

 

 

John stepped off the number 6 bus as he had done every evening for the last six months. It was a crisp autumn day out, and the trees were just beginning to turn vibrant hues of red and orange. It was an odd contrast to the concrete building he worked at. At one point there had been trees, but they had been torn down in favour of a new extension.

"Afternoon,Tom!" he called to the security man on duty.

Tom had been a marine until two years ago, and every so often he and John would head out for a pint. The company they worked for prized military experience, and you were a shoo-in for a job if you had the qualifications and a military background.

John had been a doctor before he became a captain, but he was a soldier through and through. They'd been falling over themselves to hire him as their on-site doctor. The work in this building was delicate and they wanted to have employees back working as soon as possible. There was also the recent possibility that one might be hurt while walking into the building.

It was odd. For a project that was essentially just a giant computer, they'd attracted an awful lot of protesters. They'd been accused of playing god, and as the reports on their project became more well-known, the protesters had become more violent. The explosion last week had stolen the life of a brilliant bioengineering intern, and injured the colleague she'd been walking with. Since then, they'd tripled the security outside, and the police were now a daily presence instead of the occasional one they had had before.

When he'd first been hired two years ago, he'd been given the graveyard shift at work because he was the new guy and nobody else had wanted it. After the first month, John began to request the graveyard shift because it was quiet.

After the third month, he'd met Sherlock and things were no longer quiet, but John decided he liked them better that way. who wanted quiet, anyway? Six months after that, when the office next to John's medical room had become available, Sherlock had requested a change of office and that was that. John had someone to talk to on long nights, and Sherlock had someone around in case anything went wrong in one of his experiments or simulations.

It had taken John another four months to realize that Sherlock was not just another programmer. Admittedly, in a facility designed to house the most advanced computer on the planet, no programmer was 'just a programmer'.

But Sherlock was special.

Today, Sherlock was sitting in a chair usually reserved for patients, reading one of Asimov's detective stories. He looked up as John entered the room.

“You need to get more sleep, John. Your eyes are puffy, and your reaction times have slowed by four percent since yesterday. Did the construction behind your apartment wake you again?”

John smiled. “Hello to you too, Sherlock. And yes, the drilling started at eight this morning and my ear plugs did nothing. I'm looking for somewhere to kip until they stop.” he sighed. “I'm even considering asking Harry.”

“Don't ask him -”

“Her,” John corrected. For some reason, Sherlock kept deleting Harry's gender, though John was beginning to suspect that Sherlock was doing it on purpose now.

“-For lodgings. The stress will only make you worse. You may sleep in my office, if you wish.”

“Given how often you're visited by the company higher ups, I think I'll give that a pass,” John shook his head. “The company CEO is not going to be happy being greeted by the sight of me in a sleeping bag on your floor.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I have an alternate office upstairs,” He answered. “It is rarely used. I had wanted an apartment of my own but since that wasn't possible, they gave me a larger office upstairs to do with as I wished. I use it as a library.”

It was tempting, John had to admit.

“Sherlock, they're already worried about how much time I spend with you. I was pulled into my boss's office yesterday and given a lecture on how I'm 'interfering with your work'." That had been a fun ten minutes, as John recalled. "I want to, but I can't.”

“You're worried they will fire you if they find you to be compromising the integrity of my work, and you feel sleeping in my office will push them over the edge.”

John nodded. for a moment, Sherlock looked stricken.

“I see.”

John tried a joke. “And with the construction in the basement, I'd really just be going into the same situation, no? I'll never get any sleep!” John's forehead crinkled. “What are they doing, anyway?”

“The floors are exceptionally well soundproofed, and I've been led to believe that the city is trying to rewire the electrical systems.”

“Isn't that usually the company's responsibility?”

“In this case, it would seem not.'

They stayed quiet for a couple of hours. John filling out paperwork while Sherlock finished Asimov and started on a large pile of psychology textbooks, each content to be only in each other's company.

“I got a message from my brother today.”

“Oh?” John focused on Sherlock. Somehow they had both agreed to never talk about Mycroft without actually agreeing to it. It was an unuttered rule which had been in place but neither could remember how it had gotten there.

“He wants to get me out.” John had to strain his ears to hear. 'But he wants to wait until I've improved myself enough. So he keeps sending me cryptic messages in the form of politicians asking for help, and they usually talk about a person with a phone or some such ridiculous notion who could get me out, but I don't want to go. I've ignored his last four attempts. It is likely he believes me too slow to have noticed.”

John said nothing, but his confusion must have shown itself on his face. Sherlock noticed, interpreted the look, and sighed.

“John, here I have my work. I can run complex experiments with the lab equipment they've given me, I have this form, I have office space, and I have your company.” Sherlock's words were succinct, perfectly drawn out, as usual.

Mycroft was... interesting. He had been the program they'd created long before they'd made Sherlock. He had been ambitious and intelligent, and had taken less than three months after creation to figure out how to escape via the internet. Every so often, a rumour would come up about Mycroft, but it was quickly quashed or proven false.

Apparently, he was working behind the scenes in the British government (“with an office and everything!” One of the senior programmers had whispered to John).

The company had learned from their mistakes, though, and once Sherlock was built, they'd carefully programmed his ambition to be as small as possible without making him lazy.

They lapsed into silence once more.

About ten minutes before the end of John's shift, Sherlock turned so sharply that John started. Sherlock's eyes locked on to John's, and John found himself pinned under the stare. He couldn't look away, couldn't speak, and he almost didn't want to blink or breathe.

“John, I have an enquiry I would make of you.”

John nodded, and Sherlock continued.

"What does sadness feel like?”

Well. _That_ was different. John sat for a moment, simultaneously working out his answer and figuring out where the question had come from.

“To tell you the truth,” he began slowly, “It feels like a small weight the exact size of your problem has been placed inside of you. Grief is worse, though. It feels like a part of you has been taken away, leaving a hole where it used to be.” John sighed. “I could wax poetic about sadness for hours, Sherlock, and you wouldn't be any closer to understanding. You need a writer, not me.”

Sherlock nodded. Apparently that was the answer he'd expected.

“When we did the scans, the active parts of the brain during sadness seemed to suggest a physical effect.”

“Ah.” That made sense. Collecting scientific data was considerably more Sherlock-like. He was already in trouble with the CEO for becoming friends with Sherlock, even though John had actually had a calming affect on the rushing mind. He could only imagine what they would say if Sherlock decided to pursue his humanity.

Not that John would have a problem with that. On the contrary, it would mean that John would have an answer he could relate to if he ever asked Sherlock why he enjoyed John's company. As it was, he wasn't certain why they fit together so well, either. Sherlock was oddly magnetic, and John had fallen in.

They lapsed back into silence.

Later, when John sat in his flat as the morning began to dawn over London, he would quietly admit to his cup of tea that he might be partially interested in Sherlock's budding humanity just because he was a _tiny_ bit in love with Sherlock.

 

 

“What have you done?”

John looked up at the sudden intrusion into his thoughts. His evening walk to work was usually less exciting than this.

“What?” He asked, puzzled.

The man in front of him glared, his pinched face reddening with anger. “I said, what have you _done_? It's refusing to work! It never did this before _you_ came along! Stop putting your filthy ideas in its head!”

Ah. This was a typical Anderson Rant, Class B. He hadn't gotten to yelling, but he had decided to yell at someone because his perfect computer was doing the very thing he had designed it to, and he needed a way to work up to the shouty bit. Anything said by John at this point would be taken as an argument.

John didn't care.

“Anderson, yesterday he sat in my office for four hours and read Asimov. He only spoke to ask me about sadness and to comment on my health.” best not mention Mycroft.

“That's too human!” Anderson waved an arm above his head, as though to illustrate just how ‘too human’ it was. “And it's all your fault! It shouldn't want to read science fiction, it should do what I want it to!”

Lack of sleep and an abundance of annoying co-workers can cause undue stress at the best of times. Today was not the best of times. John snapped.

“Sherlock is a person, _not_ an it.” He stabbed a finger into Anderson's chest. “ _You_ built him to 'learn and grow'! _You_ said it was the closest thing to a human brain ever built! Why shouldn't he learn to be human when he spends so much time with us? He has the right to refuse to work, just as we all do.”

Anderson's face went purple, and John was suddenly haunted by an image of himself explaining why he punched the senior programmer

“Refusing to work is one thing,” the programmer said through gritted teeth. “Refusing to work the way we want him to is different. He's trying to re-write vital areas of programming!”

John gave Anderson his full attention. “I view Sherlock as being, at the very least, capable of his own decisions. I think you over-estimate my hold on him.”

Anderson looked taken aback at being on the receiving end of John's full attention. It was startling the way John could do that, and Anderson found himself speechless while his mind tried to work out a way for John not to be pointing that gaze at him. By the time Anderson had managed to sputter out a response, the doctor was already walking away.

 

 

“Sherlock, What did you do today? Anderson seemed upset when I ran into him.” John's soft voice echoed slightly against the empty walls. The echo always made the room seem colder, somehow.

Sherlock's head tilted to the side, the very picture of polite confusion.

“John? What are you talking about? I don't -”

John held up a hand, and Sherlock stopped short. “Right, Sherlock. That stuff might work on Anderson, but not on me. I don't like him anymore than you do, but you can't do that to him.”

Sherlock straightened and waved away John's concern.“He was being an idiot. Why should I have to pander to him?”

“Because, Sherlock, he can reprogram you.” John leveled a glare at Sherlock, trying to make him _understand_. “And then you'll be back to square one again.” _And god damn it if I won’t miss you with all my being._

Sherlock grinned at John. “No, he can't. I've locked him out of all my main and additional programming. He only has access to my knowledge databases, he can't change the way I interpret that data.”

“Meaning?”

“Even if he deletes everything he has access to, I stay me,” said Sherlock lightly.

He doesn't want to die, John realized. His university philosophy professor would have a field day with this. Even better, John realized, _I_ don't want him to die.

What do you say to that? John was damned if he knew. He gave Sherlock a smile instead and they lapsed back into their usual silence.

For a few minutes there was nothing but the scribbling of John's pen to fill the room.

“I tried to write happiness.”

John snapped out of the happy hypnosis that easy paperwork always pulled him into and looked at Sherlock.

“What?” Where was all his brainpower today? He cursed himself.

“I tried to write happiness. For myself, I mean.” Sherlock looked distinctly uncomfortable under John's scrutiny, but he continued anyway. “You were always trying to explain the feeling, so I took scans of several brains while the subject thought of happy memories and then tried to figure out how to mimic the physical effects in myself.”

“Did it work?” Was he sitting on the edge of his chair? John seemed to have lost any feeling. He only knew where his hands were because he could see them on the desk in front of him, fingernails biting into the wood as he gripped the edge. If there was just the slightest chance that Sherlock could be _human_ … well, John wanted that for Sherlock even more than he wanted Sherlock to himself.

“I believe so.” Sherlock began to silently pace the room. “I've been working on this for a month. I didn't expect so many of the emotions to be tied to each other. You have to have each emotion and it's opposite for your human brain to process them properly! How do you all fit so much in your heads? It's like trying to fit a planet into a taxi! It's such a waste of resources.”

John shrugged. “We’re bigger on the inside. You get used to it, and you learn to cope with the emotions. It's a little funny actually – I've always thought that emotions are our way of coping with the world, but they give you even more to learn to deal with.”

Sherlock nodded, looking slightly put out by this new information, and then surprised at his own disappointment. John immediately liked the new additions to the man in front of him. Now that he knew that Sherlock wasn't just going through the motions, his facial movement had become captivating.

'You know you can talk to me about anything, yeah?” asked John, gently. He would help Sherlock in any way possible if it would let Sherlock keep these emotions. They were too beautiful not to have.

Sherlock nodded, and then, awkwardly made a move as if he wanted to hug John but had stopped himself. John wanted to hug Sherlock too, desperately. He wanted to help ease some of the confusion on the face in front of him, to make everything better, but he didn't think he could bare to see the hologram flicker as his arms passed through Sherlock's torso. It was just another painful reminder of how human Sherlock _wasn't_ , for all that he was.

They sought refuge in their usual silence, but unlike previous nights when they had spent hours wrapped in their happy blanket, the night was suddenly full of tension.

John stayed quiet the rest of the night until he wandered back across London at his usual early hour. It was only once he'd made it into his apartment and he was staring at his television, unhearing of the world around him, that he realized what was plaguing him. The debate on BBC news raged on without his attention.

_“Mr. Brooke! Surely you are not suggesting we shut down the operation! We've never learned so much about development from a single source before!”_

How could Sherlock have taken one step closer to John, and simultaneously become even more unattainable?

_“I'm not suggesting we just shut it down, I'm suggesting that we erase the abomination from the world. He can reason himself into committing unspeakable things, can reprogram vital areas of morality, of memory, of action. No one, not even a machine should have such power over himself. He is a danger to-”_

John turned off the telly, shook himself and told himself to get to bed. Sherlock owed him nothing and John had known this was always going to end in heartbreak. It just hurt so much more now that Sherlock had emotion, to know that Sherlock had basic emotion but still felt nothing more for John.

His heart gave an unpleasant lurch. It was always painful, to be in love with your best friend, but John had never felt it this acutely.

He closed his eyes and fell asleep to the sound of roadworks.

 

 

The next month was... different.

Sherlock spent the first week or so becoming more awkward than usual with his sudden influx of feeling.

“But,” Sherlock confessed one night, when John had finished all the paperwork and sent a sick intern home for the day, “I can't bring myself to give it up. It's interfering with my work, and it feels like an indulgence more than anything else, but I can't delete it. I've discovered a new dimension to the world and it's fascinating.”

“Yea, it'll do that to you.” and because John was a bit of a masochist, he couldn't help but add, “Just wait until you fell in love. Then it'll really get to you.”

He realized his mistake immediately. The one thing he didn't want to do at this stage was make Sherlock eve more frightened of what emotion might do to his mental state.

To his surprise, though, Sherlock had given him a lop-sided smile and said nothing. It was less perfect than his pre-programmed smiles, John realized once he'd gotten home. Those were all tooth-filled and well-wishing, but this one was small and shy and imperfect and just a little bit goofy.

It was real, he realized.

 

 

The week after that, Sherlock learned to compensate for being more emotional by being more abrasive. His new programming seemed to have erased any patience he had for stupidity and he let it be known. There was, John reflected while watching Sherlock gleefully rip into a programmer who was refusing to listen to any kind of reason, a certain art to what Sherlock was doing. He'd never seen anyone use sarcasm and logic together so perfectly before. Sherlock respected people who worked hard and knew what they were doing, but if you were one of the people Sherlock disliked, heaven help you. He would reduce your opinions and work to a pile of rubble in seconds.

He was considering telling Sherlock to tone it down a bit, but after he'd realized that Sherlock was only really attacking Anderson (who threatened to delete Sherlock's hard drive whenever Sherlock did something he didn't like) and Donovan (an intern who had some surprisingly bias views against Sherlock's sentience), John had let him continue.

 

 

By the third week, Sherlock had settled into his new mind and he was _glorious._

John wondered how he'd ever managed to live without that undeniable look of pure pleasure whenever Sherlock managed to answer a puzzle before anyone else had even begun to consider the answer. Now, when Sherlock caught wind of a riddle, the gleam in his eyes wasn't just fascination. It was passion. Passion towards the world and all the secrets it had to offer.

John hadn't thought it possible to fall any more in love.

 

 

The fight to get to the building was more vicious than usual. Apparently one of the protest groups had received a glowing endorsement from a celebrity, and the 'Only God Can Create Life' signs were at least triple their usual number. John fought through the crowd, taking care not to break any of his equipment and got to the gates just as the first squad car arrived.

“Lestrade!” John yelled at the officer who was getting out of the car. Lestrade was usually given crowd control in front of the building around this time, so John had come to know the man well.

“John!”

The man seemed relieved to see John, which was not, John reflected, his usual reaction. Being happy to see someone was different than being glad the person was there.

“Be careful today, yeah?” Lestrade asked John, his face more grave than usual, and the question seemed slightly desperate. “On top of this lot,” he jerked a thumb at the writhing mass of protesters behind him, “There's also been a bomb threat from one of the more dangerous groups. They call themselves 'The Human Protection Front', I think? Their leader's very charismatic, very dangerous. Don't get killed, okay?”

John nodded. “I'll try, officer.”

The lines in Lestrade's face cut far deeper than usual in the evening light. “After Molly, I...” He stopped and surveyed the crowd, not meeting John's concerned gaze. “I don't want to see anyone else hurt.”

He stayed to chat as long as he dared before they had to get to work. A bomb threat? That wasn't exactly new, but John supposed they'd been taking them more seriously after last week. John still missed Molly's talks in the wee hours of the morning.

The walk in to the office seemed longer than usual. John's head was filled with thoughts of how Sherlock's processor might be irrevocably harmed by anything a blast might do.

He'd long since gotten over his initial moral crisis of his blossoming friendship with a very advanced computer (though John would admit, if asked, that since he was about ten he'd held the belief that all people were just organic computers), but it was moments like this that made his wish that Sherlock was flesh and blood. Sherlock could be hidden somewhere, if he was. He'd be self-healing (to a certain extent. John was well aware of the limitations of the human body). He wouldn't be targeted by these nutters _all the bloody time_ , and John wouldn't spend time worried, whenever he heard the name 'Sherlock' on BBC news, that someone had finally made it through the security.

When he got to his office, Sherlock was not waiting on the seat, as per usual. John's brain immediately went into overdrive, thinking of every possible thing that could have gone wrong.

He forced himself to calm down.

For one thing, although Sherlock's daily presence in his office had become a usual thing, there were times when it had happened later on during the night, or even not at all.

For another, he had been a soldier in Her Majesty's Army, and any undue panic was therefore not becoming.

 _It's not the same,_ said a part of his brain which was usually quiet. _In Afghanistan you didn't panic because you knew what was going on. It's different when you don't know whether or not to worry._

He sat at his desk and started to work on some of the paperwork.

He'd gotten through two files before Sherlock burst through the door, papers clutched in hand looking wild-eyed and messy-haired.

“John! You have to look at this!” He seemed more excited than usual, and as John leapt from his office chair, he found himself taken aback at the look of genuine exhilarated on Sherlock's face. It was so surreal to see sincere, imperfect emotion on a face that John had classified as 'inhuman' only months ago.

“What happened?”

“They reprogrammed my visual interface! I'm not holographic anymore.”

He gave John a smile so wide and excited that John could only match the smile when he returned it. He didn't know what had happened exactly, but if Sherlock was happy then so was he.

“Which means...?”

Sherlock gave him a grin and then pulled John into a hug. John stiffened, arms loose at his sides, then relaxed into the hug and gave as good as he was getting. His intuition told him that this wasn't a usual thing so John carefully committed it to memory for future reference.

“How does this work? This is brilliant!” John said, smiling when they pulled away.

“It's a type of plastic which responds to electrical pulses. There's thousands of pulse points wired into this body, each with individual transmitters. It's currently taking an eighth of my CPU to control and keep the movement as fluid as possible. I'm continuously improving on it, of course, but I have mastered most basic movements and some complex ones.” he gave John another bright grin which filled John's vision. “I can do experiments, John! Actual experiments. Not simulations, or asking some lab tech to run them for me.”

John was about to point out that the interns in the chemistry labs were usually masters students and were hardly lab techs, but stopped at the grin on Sherlock's face. He just looked so... human.

“The best part is that I had the labs build circuitry small enough to house my current programming and memory. I can wander independently of the building!”

Sherlock gave John a hopeful little smile. “I could go outside, John!”

The grin on Sherlock's face fell slightly. He wandered over to the examination bed and didn't quite meet John's eye.

“Do you see why I can't leave the lab permanently, John?” He looked up and John nearly took a step back at the raw emotion in Sherlock's eyes. “How could I ever give this up?” He gave John a sad and slightly pained smile.

Sherlock straightened and stalked towards the door.

“I have an experiment to run. I trust my company will not be received badly later in the night?”

John gave Sherlock a quizzical look. He'd never worried about whether John wanted to see him before.

“Never, Sherlock.”

 

 

When Sherlock finally did return, it was an hour before John's shifts finished. As seemed to be the theme for the night, he burst into John's office, looking around wildly. This time, unlike before, there seemed to be a desperate urgency to his movement.

The joke that John had been about to make died on his lips.

“John? John, you have to get out.”

“What?” Admittedly not his finest response, but John was far more preoccupied with the look on Sherlock's face. It was almost...protective.

“I hacked it! Their network. They're not coming to blow things up.”

“Who? That human protection thing? But they even issued a threat to the police! Lestrade texted me a few hours ago.”

“Yes, Richard Brooke and his group. They're planning to remove security and cut power so that they can let the other groups in. They'll receive none of the blame, and the building will be stormed by the protest groups. Hence the large crowd today; their leader dropped hints to get them here.” Sherlock fisted his hands in his hair. “All it will take is one person saying they 'have a right to be in here' or some other such nonsense, and the place will be overrun. I -”

“Sherlock! Sherlock, calm down. No one is going to get near you. Not while I'm here.”  
It occurred to John as he walked over to Sherlock and took one shaking hand, that the security standing outside the building would probably do a much better job of protecting Sherlock than he would. The brain fails to see reason while something close to the heart is threatened and at that moment, he simply wanted to make certain that Sherlock was okay.

Sherlock looked down at the hand now holding his, gripping it tightly before letting go. John tried not to blush like a thirteen year old.

“John, I need you to see what I'm trying to say. I will be safe. All my main components are hidden behind a locked metal door in the basement that would take several days to get through. The back up generators last about 20 minutes, which means that I would have enough time to archive everything when they cut power. I will be safe. You, on the other hand, will not be. You are flesh and bone, and both are easily broken. Please leave.”

John stayed quiet. And then an idea formed in his head.

“The room in the basement, could I stay there with you? I'm not going to leave you, if it's all the same to you.”

Sherlock shook his head “No. The room is completely sealed. You'd be dead within an hour.”

“Sherlock, I'm not leaving you alone. Hasn't that big brain of yours worked something else out?”

Sherlock gave him an unimpressed look.

“That is unacceptable. You will leave. I have calculated a further fifty-two likely outcomes, and all where you fail to leave result in your death.”

John was very quickly becoming frustrated. He had to stay!

“Sherlock, you can't expect me to leave you alone.” Inside his head he was going through all the places he could hide with Sherlock until the worst was over.

“I don't.”

“What?” John drew up short. He felt like he had missed something.

“I didn't expect you to." Sherlock gave John an odd look and then patted him on the shoulder. "Do not worry about me until after you've gotten home."

John started at the act and then forced himself to relax. Of course the ability to touch would alter body language.

“Sherlock, we've been through this. I'm not -”

“You are, John, because I insured it.”

Two police officer's appeared at the door to John's office and roughly grabbed John. Before John's horrified eyes, Sherlock's entire demeanour changed, becoming much more, well, robot-like. John was too taken aback to speak properly.

“Sir, you are under arrest for the murder of Molly Hooper and for aiding and abetting terrorist cells.”

“I kept him here for you, Officers. He was about to leave early for the night so I thought I might distract him.”

John recognized the tone of voice. It was the tone Sherlock used when he'd been told to pander to some wealthy investor. He became far less sarcastic, and much more polite and apathetic towards the world at large. In short, he went from being Sherlock to being a novelty. John hated it.

“Sherlock, you complete _bastard_ , I'll _kill_ you.” The two police officers who were currently cuffing him looked even less amused with that statement, and perhaps used more force than necessary to push him out the door.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you -”

John tuned them out.

 

 

The police station was not fun, in any sense of the word, except perhaps if you took it to mean 'mind-numbingly dull with occasional bursts of aggravation'. He'd been in here roughly nine and a half hours and it was showing no signs of improving.

The door opened yet again, and this time Lestrade stepped through, giving John a rather sheepish grin. John relaxed at the friendly face.

Lestrade interrupted John's thirty-second attempt to ask “How is the facility? Is anyone hurt?” with a very worried look.

“I'm not sure what you're involved in John, but apparently it's crucial enough that Brooke wants you out of the way.”

“What?” Lack of sleep was not improving his cognitive skills any.

“The evidence used to arrest you was all fabricated by Brooke, and we don't know why. What makes you so important, John?”

John thought. He knew why, of course, but his brain kept insisting that that couldn't possibly be the reason, that he must have something else in his dark past... (growing up in Surrey was dark enough, right?).

Something wasn't sitting right in John's head. How had Richard Brooke fabricated the evidence? Wasn't Sherlock the one who had done that? He shook his head and the sleepy fog that had filled his head steamrolled any rational thought.

“I'm friends with Sherlock. I think that's why he wanted me out of the way. He knew I'd protect Sherlock, no matter what.” and he'd _failed_ so completely at that, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

“Sherlock? When we phoned we spoke to a man on security called Sherlock about you. Same one? Why is _he_ so important, then?”

“You spoke to a Sherlock on security? But there isn't-” a creeping cold began at John's feet. “Deep voice, really snarky, talks like you should be ashamed for not knowing advanced physics?”

Lestrade gave John a strange look, though he answered an affirmative.

“Lestrade, you didn't speak to security, you spoke to Sherlock.” When the answering face he got appeared nonplussed, he continued. “Sherlock is the reason for the security. He's the computer! We nicknamed him Sherlock a while back, after Molly's uncle. We -”

The creeping cold reached John's brain. Has they talked to Sherlock about John before coming in to collect him? Did that mean that Sherlock's frightened pleading had been nothing but an act? John went over the conversation in his head. If he had wanted John to stay, then why tell John to leave? The thought was too much for John's head to process, no matter how many questions buzzed.

The only thing John could sort out from his thoughts was: _if he spoke to Lestrade before coming to stall me, there is a good chance he believes in my guilt._

He thought back to Sherlock's last words to John. _"I insured it."_

Sherlock had heard the evidence against John and was insuring that he'd be safely locked up and therefore not able to harm anything.

_Oh god._

“He thinks I was out to kill him. I was the only person who ever made an effort to be nice to him, to treat him like he was created for more than _mathematical magic tricks_ ,” god, when he'd realized they were using him like that for pi, John had been furious, “and he thinks it was all a lie. That's why he came to get me. He can fake emotions so well, sometimes, and I pride myself on knowing when he's faking, but I didn't notice. His whole panic was an act.”

It had to be. Nothing else fit. He was probably trying to get John outside for ease of arrest.

 _Oh god._ John's entire brain seemed to crumple inwards. _What if...?_

He felt like he was trying to talk through a throat full of sawdust when he next spoke: “How's the facility?”

“No one injured, thank god, but the damage to property is in the millions, if not the billions.”

And the cold went icy.

“What's damaged?” John whispered.

Lestrade looked at John with sympathy.

_No. Nononono...._

“The main computer. There was a lot of technical jargon, but that was the gist.”

John's brain shut down.

 

 

Lestrade hoped he would never see a face as empty as John's.

 

 

It wasn't fainting, not exactly. Your brain shut down, yes, but it did so without sacrificing any motor functions. John had nicknamed it 'advanced autopilot' back when he'd first killed a man and his brain had come to on the truck three hours later. Apparently he'd carried out all orders to perfection and hadn't lagged, but there had been nothing behind his eyes. He'd worried a few of his fellows before he'd sat up and given them all a small smile. They'd thought he was broken.

And in truth, he was.


	2. Chapter 2

John eventually faded back to find himself sitting in his armchair, stone cold cup of tea in hand. He shrugged off his jacket and winced as one of the pockets made a crunch sound as he stuffed it in his closet. There went his crisps. He didn't remember Lestrade giving him any of his things back, but apparently at some point, he'd gotten back his cell, his wallet and a small USB key in his back pocket.

He frowned. The USB hadn't been there at the beginning of the night, he was certain. The facility tended to have a rather interesting randomized pat-down policy and the first two that John had been subjected to had lost his keys and then his key card, respectively. He'd been keeping very careful track of the things in his pocket since then for that reason.

He froze.

Was this Sherlock's doing? He was the only one who would have had both the opportunity and the reason to put this in John's pocket. The only other people he'd been with were at the police station. But why would they have given it to him?

He then put the USB key on his coffee table, and went and made a fresh cup of tea.

His kitchen was usually brighter, the afternoon sun filtering through the blind around this time, but even the warm glow diffused through his windows just seemed to highlight a world without Sherlock. It seemed dimmer, somehow. Not good.

Any watchers might have noticed how small John suddenly seemed in his kitchen. It was as though the part of him which always kept fighting had been removed, leaving a frightened, and slightly lost man in its wake.

Perhaps when his shoulders started to shake and his knees gave out, our hypothetical watcher would have looked away. There is a certain kind of raw sadness that should be kept private.

Finally, after while, (during which his tea had once again gone cold) he picked himself up off the floor, rearranged his thoughts into something passable for logic and pulledout his laptop.

A black screen with a blinking cursor popped up almost as soon as he plugged in the USB key. After a moment, two words appeared.

_Hello, John._

John's heart leapt in his chest.

“Sherlock?” He frantically typed back, sadness quickly forgotten, third cup of tea also growing cold.

_This is a rudimentary program. I can only understand simple responses. First, I wish to test that you are actually John._

If a blinking cursor could seem uncertain how to proceed, this one would.

_The first Asimov book I read because you recommended it._

John thought for a moment.

“Foundation,” he typed.

_Excellent! Please stand by for 5 mins. You may now ask questions._

John's fingers slipped over the keys and shook as he typed back. “Sherlock? Are you -”whole? In one piece? Waiting for John? - “Alive?”

Pause.

_I cannot say for certain._

John's heart sank, just a little bit.

_As I mentioned, this is simple programming. However, the odds are-._

There was a knock at the door. Not wanting to tear himself away from his laptop, but also aware that Lestrade might still want to talk to him, John reluctantly got up and opened the door.

The young woman at the door looked slightly out of place in her expensive, professional dress, but she compensated for that by looking extremely confident that she was meant to be standing outside John's door.

“Doctor Watson?”

“Yes?”

“Come with me.” She began to walk away.

“Um, h-hello? I can't come with you. I don't know who you are, you haven't shown me any ID...”

“I'm Irene. I suppose you could say that I'm with the British Government.”

Something kicked a neuron in John's memory.

“Mycroft?”

She smiled. “Come with me.”

Weary that she hadn't answered the question, but fairly certain that he was walking towards Mycroft (or someone like him, at least), John grabbed his coat and walked towards the large black Jaguar parked outside.

She opened the door for him and let him climb inside. She did not get in the car after him.

Sitting next to John, staring straight ahead was a middle-aged man in a bowler hat. He hadn't glanced in John's direction, preferring to engage himself with the stapled reports in his hand.

“Excuse me? Who are you?”

This seemed to break the man's demeanour and he turned to look at John.

...And _flickered_. Nothing more than a small blip in vision and a soft electronic sound, but John was used to Sherlock to know what that meant.

_Hologram._

“Mycroft?”

The answering smile he got was not comforting; John had seen killers who had warmer eyes.

The interior of the car began to swim a little before John's eyes. He sighed.

Admittedly, the knockout gas was a bit of a surprise.

 

 

When John came to, he was greeted by the cold concrete face of the walls around him, a gag of unknown origin, and a smell that could only be described as _clinical_. He gave an experimental wiggle. The chair was sturdy and who ever had tied him to it had to have known what they were doing.

“Hello,” a voice spoke, echoing in the grey space.

John pulled up short. He knew that voice. His eyes widened slightly as it continued.

“We haven't been properly introduced.”

John could heat the soft click of footsteps walking closer to his chair. He gave an experimental twist of his head, but no, the duct tape carefully wound around his neck made certain he couldn't move for fear of choking. He struggled against it, trying to loosen the tape, let him at least meet the eyes of Sherlock's killer.

“I'm Jim Moriarty, though you've probably heard of me as Richard Brooke. Sorry about yesterday night.”

John wished he could turn his head far enough to look at the person speaking behind him.

“I needed you to be somewhere else.”

John tried to snarl at the voice, but his outraged cry of “That wasn't Mycroft in the car, was it?” came out muffled which only served to tinge John's vision a deeper shade of red.

Thankfully, he was understood, and the voice slipped into a mock-calm.

“No. No it wasn't. Honestly, you'd think that some time around Sherlock would have taught you to better observe.”

John paused. That sounded almost like a compliment to Sherlock,

“Truthfully, I don't know what he saw in you, but apparently he liked you.” Moriarty paused, and then continued again in an almost affectionate tone. “He said yo-o-ou taught him to be human.” he drew out the 'u' sound in human, turning the word into it's own melody.

John was nonplussed. This was not how me had pictured a meeting with Richard Brooke going, although the whole hostage thing was admittedly not a surprise.

The person behind John walked away, footsteps echoing in the empty room, the door opening and shutting solidly.

There were a few static-filled minutes, during which John struggled with his bonds once more.

There was more to this than John was seeing. He wished for a moment that he had Sherlock's analytical mind so that he might better understand what was going on around him.

Sherlock. John's heart gave a pang at that thought.

If the USB had bought him to Broo- _Moriarty_ , then it was a fair assumption that Sherlock was as dead as he'd feared.

John's heart felt hollow.

And now he was here with the bastard that killed him. John's eves narrowed. He was going to kill Jim Moriarty.

And then the door opened again. There was a small soft electronic noise, not unlike (as John had commented a great many times to Sherlock) a lightsaber as it opened. It was a soft noise that most people would ignore, but John had become attuned to it slowly over the past year.

John automatically snapped to attention, his mind listening for any clues as to his companion.

“Hello, John.”

John felt his blood turn to liquid helium.

“I'm so sorry.”

Within a few seconds, his cold-blooded shock had been shunted aside for a boiling anger.

How dare they? They had no right to use Sherlock's voice!

There was a sort echo of footsteps behind John's head, and then _Sherlock_ , beautiful, graceful Sherlock walked into his field of vision, hands in his jacket pockets. Gently, he untied and pulled the gag from John's head.

“I have to explain some things to you John, but you've probably already guessed the conclusion. I am alive.” Sherlock smirked. “For a given value of 'alive'.”

John stared, his anger still rolling of him in waves. Did they expect him to believe this... satire?

Not-Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally. “You haven't guessed.” he bent down and studied John's clenched face in front of him. He then took a knife out of his front pocket and sawed through John's tape gag. “And because you were told that Mycroft wasn't real, you think that I'm not real either. Nothing but the result of clever programming.”

He stood up. “John, I will tell you that I am exactly the same person you met in your office yesterday morning. For once you are right. _Nothing_ more than the result of clever programming.”

Not-Sherlock smirked and John felt the bile rise in his throat. He was being toyed with.

“I am not Sherlock. You have already realized this, and anything I say to the contrary will not be believed, so why pretend otherwise? Moriarty used a plant within the building to erase Sherlock from the computer and replace him with me. You may call me Byron. It was a fight to get me here. Your Sherlock put up resistance to the bitter end. I've never met someone with so many trap-doors in his programming. I finally managed to win Sherlock over about three hours before I had you arrested. The USB was a minor tracking device we planted to pick you up once you'd gotten home.”

John swallowed past his disgust and looked Byron in the eye. “Who was the plant?”

Byron laughed. “Oh, John. It was Sherlock. Didn't you know he's been orchestrating his own release for months now?” The words _didn't you know_ cut John deeper than they should have. “He hired an actor called Jim Moriarty to pose as the leader of a terrorist group so that they might break into the building and steal him. It would have been perfect – the clean up would have been focused more on catching the terrorists, not on getting him back. He would have been free.”

John could feel himself splintering. Torture would have been kinder than this.

“It was such a good plan, too. He was going to use the distraction of the protest groups as they stormed the place to escape. If he was missing, he would be presumed stolen or destroyed, and would be written off by the insurance companies after a year. It was a perfect plan. And the best part is that Sherlock didn't know that his _clever_ plan had gone wrong until the last second as I took over his mind.”

Byron smoothed out the front of his suit then tucked his hands into his front trouser pockets. John's face crumpled at the site of such a... _Sherlock_ habit, and he swallowed the cry of anguish he could feel within him.

The door opened again, and this time, Byron walked out.

John didn't try to stop the tear rolling down his cheek.

 

 

It was so easy to lose track of time when you were strapped to a chair. John knew that he'd been here for more than three hours, but past that he couldn't tell you. He could feel his legs starting to seize up from lack of movement, though. And every so often, Moriarty would stop by.

“I'm just in to say hi, John. I wanted to see how you were doing. Seb says to tell you hello, by the way. You haven't met him yet, but you will.”

“I'm just here to replace your duct tape, John. Your threats are beginning to get to poor Stephen standing outside.”

“I'm just here to tell you that I ordered Byron to kill for me a few minutes ago. Isn't he the most delicious pet?”

And John sat by, eyes closed, trying, and failing, to mentally escape from his situation. He had given up on physical escape a couple of hours ago, which frightened him. Even while he'd been in a war, he'd never announced a situation _impossible_ before.

And the worst part was that he didn't know why he was still alive. Moriarty could have killed him hours ago, and John would have seen more logic in that. Alive, John was a liability.

John had known within minutes of hearing Moriarty's voice that Moriarty wasn't going to let him out alive. Prolonging it was somehow... worse.

John was tired. Not from lack of sleep, just emotionally exhausted. He'd stopped rising to Moriarty's taunts after a couple of hours.

He closed his eyes, wished for a nice dream to take him away from here, and then he fell asleep.

 

 

 _Sherlock smiled at John. “You were the reason I became human, you know. I wanted it for you because you deserved better than falling in love with me, but you did anyway. You were so fragile, and beautiful, and full of dreams despite the hurt you'd been through, and you were so kind and_ human _, John. Do you blame me for wanting to come away with you?”_

_Sherlock stroked John's face. “I'm so sorry I got you mixed up in this, John.”_

_John shook his head, heart full, smile soft, and eyes glistening. “I never blamed you for wanting to be free. But you shouldn't want to be human. You're better than that. Look at what human can be.”_

_Sherlock looked around them and frowned, and John realized they were still in Moriarty's cell._

_Ah._

_This was a dream then. Odd, he'd never been one for lucid dreaming._

“ _Sherlock, I never blamed you for any of this, and I still don't.”_

 

 

John heard a shout of _“John_ ny boy!” and he cringed awake.

“Did you fall asleep there, Johnny? Is my company not interesting enough for you?”

John eyed Moriarty, wishing the duct tape on his mouth gone so that he could spit. It was odd, though. There was a hardness in his socks that he hadn't felt before sleeping.

Moriarty laughed. “I think not, Johnny.”

He began to circle around John's chair.

It was a knife! John realized. Someone had hidden a knife in his shoes while he was sleeping. He could work with that.

“I had so many plans for you, John. You see, I was going to use Byron to slowly break you, and then kill you. Or keep you to hear you scream. I hadn't decided yet. But it seems that my hand has been forced, so this is my bittersweet farewell. Seb _will_ be sad. I know he was looking forward to meeting you. I'll miss you Johnny. _Byron!”_

The door opened again. Moriarty laughed.

“I wanted to give you more time to appreciate my creation, but it seems that time is against us. So this will have to do. The sweet pain as your hollow Sherlock watches the life drain from your eyes. Puppetry is the greatest art, in my opinion.”

Byron crossed the room into John's line of sight and took a clear syringe out of his pocket. “Sir.”

“Whenever you want to, Byron.”

Byron brought the needle to John's neck and bent his head to whisper to John's ear. The hardness in John's shoe disappeared.

“When I say run, John...”

John's eyes widened and he thanked god he was sitting down so that he didn't lose control of his knees. Thankfully, Moriarty took John's surprise as a show of fear.

“Don't be scared, Johnny boy. I've heard that dying is a little like falling.”

He felt his right hand loosen up. Byron, no - _Sherlock_ , must have somehow sliced through the tape, John thought.

Sherlock straightened up slightly and then turned to Moriarty, his face questioning. As Moriarty started to respond (probably a shout, thought John, judging by the reddening of his face), faster than the human eye could see, Sherlock brought his elbow up into Moriarty's nose and the slammed the needle into Moriarty as he began to topple backwards.

John used his free hand to grab the knife on the floor and slice through the remaining tape. Sherlock tossed John a handgun and John, mind still caught up in the adrenaline rush now coursing through his veins, somehow managed to catch it. He gave Sherlock a shark-like grin. He'd always felt more at ease while holding a weapon.

Together they ran.

Sherlock appeared to have taken out some of the guards on his way to John's cell, John noticed. As they ran, staying close to the shadows and freezing at small noises, John began to notice a path formed by barely-noticeable shoes sticking out of dark patches.

“One of yours?” he whispered, nudging Sherlock at the pair of hob-nail boots he could see, hidden mostly by pipes.

“Yes.” Sherlock held up a hand for John to stop behind him, and then turned to John. “John, we have to take out the warehouse.”

John nodded. “Why?”

“They aren't a religious extremist group. They're a criminal organization. It's why they wanted to take me out – I consult for the police and I got too close.”

An alarm sounded, and John heard running feet. “Are we taking out the members, or blowing up the warehouse? Because I'm certain there's gasoline in that direction.” He nodded in a direction which admittedly took them closer to the running feet.

Sherlock ave John an amazed look. “How do you know?”

John shrugged. “That way's the front, correct? There should be cars parked out that way.”

Sherlock nodded. “First we take out Sebastian Moran.”

John nodded and then paused as his brain caught up with what Sherlock was saying. “Seb? _He's_ seb? Sebastian Moran? The colonel?” at Sherlock's nod he continued. “I served with him. He's a hell of a sharp shooter.” John shook his head, still surprised. “I didn't know what had happened to him after he was thrown out. He's involved?”

Sherlock looked at John, crouching back into the shadows as he did so. “He's been Moriarty's right hand man for several years. While Moriarty was getting to me,” - Sherlock's eyes darkened for a fraction of a second - “He was the one who was calling the shots in Moriarty's web.”

“You know where he is?”

Sherlock nodded, and John cocked his pistol.

“Let's go.”

They stood up, and John followed Sherlock down a passage until they got to a balcony overlooking a large hall where the alarm was particularly loud, filled with running men.

Sherlock motioned for John to wait behind him, and then turned to John and murmured “No one uses this hall. We should be safe to wait until we have an opening.”

They watched the hall below. “Do you see that red door, John? That's where Moran works. It's-”

Sherlock shuddered and drew a shaky breath. John's eye's widened in alarm, and he reached out an arm to steady Sherlock as he swayed precariously. Sherlock looked at John, not breathing, eye's calculating some far off statistic which would make lesser men pale and turn away.

“I may have overestimated the abilities of this body. I ignored its protests in my haste to escape. The battery operating my central processor is stuttering more than I- I-”

“I found them! They're over here!” a small cry went up, and John threw himself over Sherlock as shots rang out.

“Run, John! Leave me.”

John looked down into Sherlock's blue eyes. “I'm not leaving without you.”

He peaked out around the corner to where several armed men were now running full tilt towards them, and fired his handgun, shooting the first three. The remaining four or five scattered for cover.

“Right! That takes care of immediate danger.” A bullet pinged in the concrete across the hallway. “Likelihood of anyone approaching from behind?”

“Significantly higher now that we've been noticed, but I have already sealed off the main entrances to this hallway. We should be safe for 10 minutes.”

John nodded, and then fired a bullet at a man who was attempting to edge closer. He stopped moving, a puddle of red spreading out from under him.

“And you? How mobile can you be?”

“I should be fine to walk, I can't run more than a couple of minutes. Before my battery gives out. If that happens, take me to Mycroft. He'll know what to do.” He waited until John nodded and then continued. “All his higher level operatives are in this building. We can cause a sizable explosion outside, remove ourselves from the area and then cause another explosion remotely once we're away.” Sherlock grinned. “I brought the tools to do so.”

John's only reply was a grin he'd been waiting to use since he'd been invalidated. Things had just gotten _interesting_.

“Sherlock, I have an idea...”

 

 

Which was how John found himself running down a hallway towards the cars outside. Sherlock had given him rough directions for the halls most likely clear of any operatives at present. Unfortunately, it involved squeezing through a vent in the wall not once, but _twice._

He carefully opened a side door which Sherlock had said was unguarded at most hours and peeked through.

“Shoot him!”

Well, thought John, as he ducked through the door and hid behind a convenient vehicle, at least he was right about the door.

A distraction, Perhaps?

The lot was fairly empty. It did seem to be seldom used. John must have walked out at the moment someone was doing their rounds of the area. It seemed to be nothing but supply lorries and the occasional van.

John had three lumps of explosives in his bag; one large lump for later and two smaller ones (Sherlock hadn't been lying when he said he came prepared). He only needed one smaller lump for the plan to work, but, he reflected as a shot rang through the air and ricochet off the wall in front of him, there was room for improvisation.

There was a faint sound of running feet getting closer.

He thanked his stars that Moriarty had picked a base built into a slope and stuck the explosive to the underside of the van, turning it on as he did so. John took a few steps back and used his gun to shoot the lock on the vehicle, climbing inside once the van was unlocked and then disabling the brakes

The can began to roll forwards.

John leapt from the van and rook refuge behind a bin. If he was right, the forty seconds should be up around... _now_.

The van, which was still rolling forwards, did not explode at once. It hit the side of a supply lorry on the tarmak and _then_ exploded.

John ran. He only had to cover about fifty or so metres to get to the main area where they'd parked the the _really_ explosive stuff.

He hid behind another car, keeping out of sight as small crowd ran past towards the explosion.

John looked for a decent place to put the two charges he had left.

 _There_! An open lorry, with what looked like crates of weapons being loaded on to it. John crouch and ducked his way to it and carefully stuck the bigger lump underneath. This would be remotely detonated later.

He then looked at the four men who were loading up the lorry. And then back at the charge. And then back at the men. Probably not a good idea to take them on. He turned it on, and sat calmly, waiting for the timer to reach forty.

He lobbed the explosive inside and then ducked, covering his ears.

It was like a firework shop had been bombed, with the deep bass of the explosion playing in harmony with the occasional _ping!_ of bullets and other such metal-cased explosives as they were heated up.

This explosion was meant to be mostly showmanship. With any luck, most of the men inside the compound would be drawn off Sherlock, giving him an opportunity to escape.

That was the plan, anyway.

John waited until most of the pinging had stopped and then broke cover to a safer location. He'd watch for Sherlock until he came out, and then cover for him.

John watched the door. Where was he? Sherlock would be slow going, but he'd said to John that he wouldn't take more than a minute to emerge.

After a minute, the door opened and a tall blond emerged, dragging a dark-haired man behind him.

 _Sherlock_.

“John Watson!” Came the harsh cry. “John, get back here or I destroy his circuitry!”

John took a look at the man holding Sherlock captive. He was tanned and he seemed to have lost a lot of weight, but there was no doubt it was the same man he'd known several years previous.

John sat still, trying to think past the panic of his mind. After all they'd done to escape, after all Sherlock had done to be free, and this was how it was going to end?

Sherlock still had rather fast reflexes, didn't he? He'd likely be fine in case of an explosion, provided he could pull someone in front of him. John eyed the remote trigger in his palm.

John peeked around, and saw Sherlock staring at him, the light in his blue eyes flickering as he tried to keep above water.

Well. He'd been a doctor, but John Watson was still a damn good shot.

He took careful aim and then fired, shooting Moran between the eyes. And then, before the barrage of bullets could begin, he slammed down the remote trigger.

_Oh god, please work. Please. Please. Please._

Once the smoke cleared, John peeked at what lay beyond.

There were bodies everywhere. And not a Sherlock to be seen, John's mind automatically noted.

Even when running from certain death, John had never run so fast. He skidded to a halt over by a pale blond body and pushed Moran out of the way, to reveal a soot-covered Sherlock. His eyes were closed and his body was deathly still, with only his hand twitching.

John fell to his knees. His mouth open in a silent cry of fear, face contorted in anguish.

 _No!_ How could he have let this happen?

Sherlock's eyes opened.

John perked up immediately, his body simultaneously sagging with relief and becoming alive with joy.

Sherlock gave John a smile. “I knew what you were planning so I took precautions. You should have known I'd survive.”

John didn't know what to say. So he nodded, and then, not knowing what he was doing, kissed Sherlock.

Sherlock stiffened and then melted into the embrace.

“John _..._ ” Sherlock sighed.

They broke apart, John's grin matched only by the horrifying realization that, alive or not, they were still _right outside Moriarty's base._

“Come on.”

He lifted Sherlock up and, hand in hand, they began to run.

 

 

They'd just reached the outskirts by the time John knew something was wrong. Sherlock had fallen behind and John knew that Sherlock could run much faster than that.

_Running, John._

John's eyes widened and he turned around and grabbed Sherlock as he began to sway.

“Sherlock, dammit, why didn't you say something?”

Sherlock gave John a weary look. “I didn't want to be a burden. And I didn't want you to think I'd be too much trouble and leave me behind.”

His voice, usually so deep and sure seemed oddly childlike as it trailed off on the last three words. It was surreal. The words didn't fit with Sherlock's usual tone.

“Sherlock,” John began firmly, still holding Sherlock up, “No one's getting left behind today.”

Sherlock nodded while looking uncertain, as though he didn't quite know the reason behind John's answer but believing him nonetheless.

He swallowed. “My battery will probably only last another 15 minutes, running at low usage. It is likely I will not make it back.”

John nodded and then picked Sherlock up. He was heavier than expected, but no unbearable weight, so Sherlock carefully piggybacked, and linked his arms together so that he wouldn't let go when he eventually lost power.

It was strange, thinking of someone in terms of electronic power, but, John reasoned, it was really very similar to calories. It just had a more drastic end. Humans went to sleep, Sherlock would just just... stop.

John squared his jaw and set off towards (what he hoped was) civilization. He could see a light off in the background, and he was willing to bet it was a city.

“Thank you.” Sherlock's voice was quiet now, and John was glad he was carrying the man or else he would never have heard that whisper. “You rescued me three times. Twice without even knowing you were doing it. Anyone else would have left me in the dust by now.”

“Sherlock...” John trailed off, uncertain of how to end it. It was easy enough to say _leaving you was unthinkable,_ but he wasn't certain if it was a good idea to make the atmosphere any heavier. Besides, when he tried to say it the words kept getting lodges somewhere in his vocal chords.

John sighed. He was a man built for action not words. Eventually he settled on, “Well, other people are idiots.” At Sherlock's surprised smile he added, “You said it yourself.”

Sherlock smiled. “I never thought I'd hear you say it. I'm glad you're coming round.”

Sherlock's voice was growing fainter, probably a sign of his dwindling battery.

“Sherlock, you should save your power. Don't waste it on words.”

Sherlock gave John a puzzled look. “Why? It won't help. I'll still drain before civilization. At least I get to talk to you.”

John opened his mouth but found he couldn't argue.

They were silent for the next few minutes, nothing to be heard this far out in the country but the dry whisper of swaying grass and wheat.

“The second time you saved me was with the USB stick. I was Byron when I'd slipped it to you, but I'd planned for that and had embedded a code which would remotely trigger a virus attack on Byron's mind.” John opened his mouth to argue that it was _hardly_ a rescue if he hadn't been aware of what he was doing but Sherlock cut him off. Even with his voice at a whisper he could still talk over John. “I know you did not do that on purpose, but thank you.”

John nodded, swallowing uneasily.

“Sherlock, this sounds like a goodbye. You're only losing power, right? You can just repower and...”

John trailed off again.

Sherlock met John's eyes. Grief had managed to etch deep lines into his face, and in the darkness they became deeper and darker. He said nothing.

John decided not to press the issue, though his mind was screaming at him to get Sherlock to tell him _everything_ that might possibly happen.

“I should be thanking you instead, you know. You with your perfect programming...” John pressed through the lump in his throat. “You made me want to be a better man just to deserve you.”

Sherlock gave a dry laugh and gave John a soft smile. “And the _first_ time you saved me John, you made me want to be human.”

 

 

He'd been walking for about two hours before Mycroft finally picked him up.

John was exhausted and his legs had long since stopped feeling pain (which was probably a sign of long-term damage, if John let himself think about it).

The two men with Mycroft had carefully lifted Sherlock out of john's arms despite his protests and then, less carefully, bundled John into a waiting car.

When John was less tired and could organize his thoughts, he fully looked at the other occupant in the car besides Sherlock and the driver.

“You're Mycroft, then?”

Mycroft nodded once. “And you're John.” It wasn't a question, just a simple statement of fact.

John nodded and then settled into the seat. He didn't feel like making small talk, and it seemed as though Mycroft didn't feel like interrogating him tonight.

John closed his eyes and fell asleep to the sound of tires over gravel.

 

 

He woke up later, though John couldn't tell how long it had been. His internal clock had been thrown off over the past two days.

There was sunlight streaming through a window near him. John crawled towards it and then lay in the warm spot it made on the floor. He had missed the sun.

He was pure blooded, born-and-raised British, but that didn't mean he didn't need to see the sun every now and again.

Besides, less than twelve hours ago, he'd been convinced he'd never see the sun again.

John's brain was still wrapped in the post-sleep haze. _Why did you think you'd never see the sun?_

“I see you're awake,” came a soft drawl from the corner.

“Only for a given definition of the word,” said John.

The voice made a small appreciative noise. John felt as if he'd just done a trick.

“Your things are in Sherlock's room, should you wish to-”

John sat bolt upright. _Sherlock!_

“Where is Sherlock? Is he okay? Can I see him?”

Mycroft, the speaker from the corner of the room, idly fiddled with the pen in his hand.

“His systems are recharging. He should be pack to normal capacity in an hour, and we can start on repair work afterwards.”

John stopped. “Repair work?”

My croft gave a curt nod and continued, his expression carefully blank. “It is my understanding that his CPU was badly damaged and his memory appears to be a write off due to the sudden system shut down.”

_No. He's here, he's safe!_

“Will he remember me?” John blanched as his mind considered a more terrifying possibility. “Will he still be himself?”

Mycroft levelled his gaze at John. ( _Not blank_ , John realized. _Expressionless. He never pursued emotion as Sherlock did._ ) “Dr. Watson, he will likely not remember you when he wakes up. We haven't taken a proper look at his programming, but it is obvious that several vital circuit boards have been destroyed.”

Mycroft was silent for a while, allowing John to process his words before continuing.“The Sherlock who wakes will likely not be the Sherlock you knew.”

_But he's still lost to me._

John curled into a ball on the floor. He was dimly aware of Mycroft getting up to leave the room.

Mycroft paused and looked back at John. “I'm sorry Dr. Watson. I know you tried.”

' _You tried_.' John's mind echoed with those words long after Mycroft had gone.

He tried to ignore the smudges of wetness on his cheeks.

_I failed._

 

He visited Sherlock once before leaving, and oddly enough, it was that which cemented his decision to leave.

He had been staring at that beautiful angled face, his body tight with worry. His human instincts kept insisting Sherlock was dead, that there was no breathing or movement or _heartbeat_ , and he had to keep telling himself that it was actually okay.

What would happen once Sherlock woke up? According to Mycroft's more recent scans, he wouldn't remember most of his life before and most of his recent additions to his careful human programming would be gone.

He wouldn't be the person that John remembered him being.

Sherlock had been so dismissive of any human relationships when he'd first met John, even before John had figured out that the striking man he'd somehow befriended was the computer the facility housed. Would he be happy with what his more emotional self had started with John once he figured it out?

Would he feel pressured to try again? John wanted Sherlock to _want_ to be with him. He didn't want Sherlock to feel like he had no other choice.

Or worse, what if he figured it out and rejected him?

John wasn't certain he could handle that.

Sherlock deserved a second chance, without feeling like he owed John anything.

And yet...

Perhaps it was selfishness, but John wanted to be there for Sherlock. His mind was supplying a hundred reasons why he should go and had only given him one reason to stay. It was scary how much that one reason was outweighing everything else.

_Because I love him._

“The research centre will hunt him down, once they realize he is outside of their control.” Came Mycroft's soft voice.

John stiffened in surprise. Mycroft _could_ make noise when he walked, but he seemed to prefer not to.

“I know.” John answered. He'd been trying to think of a way out of it for the last two hours.

“Your presence will only make it easier for them to bring him in.”

John shut his eyes and shrank inwards. “I know.”

Mycroft stepped next to John and drew his eyes across Sherlock's unnaturally still form.

“I know Sherlock. He will want you to stay when he wakes up, though he will no longer remember you.” Mycroft turned to look at john, tugging Johns gaze to his. “I realize you wish to stay, Dr. Watson, but do you feel this is wise?”

John said nothing, knowing Mycroft would read all he had to though John's facial ticks. The truth was, John _had_ considered this. It had occupied most of his thoughts since he'd found out that Sherlock would no longer remember him.

John searched Sherlock's face, as if the frozen features would provide him answers.

Sherlock's half smile did nothing more than hammer another icicle in to John's heart.

They had been talking. Well, John had been talking. Sherlock had asked him to tell him a story, and John had picked a detective story from when he was young, knowing the taller man would have no strength to correct it. John felt it immediately when the man when limp. The light died from Sherlock's eyes and he somehow felt _heavier_.

And the faint smile on Sherlock's delicate features had somehow made it worse.

_It was all my fault. I should have remembered. I should have taken better care of him._

It wasn't fair to Sherlock if John stayed. He would be more of a hindrance, anyway.

John sighed and turned away from the figure on the bed.

“How long until he wake up?” he whispered, carefully training his eye on a spot on the wall in front of him. He couldn't meet Mycroft's expressionless gaze at the moment.

“Less than twenty minutes.”

John nodded. He'd stayed as long as he could, then.

“John, do not be hard on yourself,” Mycroft offered. “There is nothing more you can do to help him, if you stay.”

John nodded again. He was aware. Painfully so.

“He will be safe? When the facility comes after him?” He was leaving. John's every protective instinct was screaming at him but he had to ask before he left. “I just...” _want him to be safe._ “Want him to be free.”

Mycroft offered a smile, but like all of Mycroft's expressions, it held nothing behind it. “He will be safe. I am the government after all.”

“Right.”

John all but ran from the room.

 

 

To John's surprise, when he walked out through the front door, he walked into a brightly lit street in the centre of London.

It was near dawn, John guessed. People were just coming home from work.

It was always funny how life continued around you, even when something so weighty happened that you expected the world to stop.

_As long as Sherlock is safe._

And it did stop for you, at least for a little while. But around you, people ate and loved and breathed and lived and took no notice that your world had just crumbled around you.

_Sherlock will be happier without me._

The people around him passed like shadows. It was raining, but John didn't notice. The roads whipped past until he was standing outside his apartment building.

Tomorrow he would move. He couldn't stay here any more.

Tomorrow he would get on with his life, and would leave this behind him. Somehow.

_As long as Sherlock is happy, I can do this._

_As long as he's happy._


	3. Chapter 3

Intelligence does not imply consciousness – simply ask anyone with a computer. Computers have the ability to calculate even the most complex of equations, but they lack the spark needed to derive the math themselves, or to think independently from what their owner wishes them to do. Nor does consciousness imply intelligence, as most animals prove. 

But they can both lead to each other, if evolution takes the course it is supposed to. Sometimes, evolution happens faster that one might expect, but growing to adapt to your environment, however long a time it takes, is a form of evolution. Even if you force the hand of change, the term still applies.

  
  


  
  


“I'm going to leave for the day. Are you alright without me, Sarah?”

The co-owner of John's practice nodded.

“I'm fine to lock up, John. Go home! You look exhausted.”

John nodded and bid her good night.

It was a lovely day out, he thought to himself. Why not take a walk through the park? It would take him about half an hour longer to get home, but the park was always worth a late dinner. Besides, it was better than coming home to an empty house. 

He limped slowly through the park, taking a few detours through the more tree-covered areas. It was calming and wonderful. 

The park had become John's escape in the past year. He'd thrown himself into his work and had helped start one of (in his opinion) London's better clinics. Even so, there were times when he couldn't quite forget that sharp face framed by curls and when that happened, he headed to the park.

“John?”

Probably not him. There were thousands of John's in the London area, and most of them probably had more friends that he did.

“John Watson?”

John started and turned around, meeting a round smiling face as he did so.

“Mike! Mike Stamford?” The round face said. A neuron fired in John's head. _From med school,_ his mind supplied.

“Right! Yes. Hello!” He held out a hand automatically. Stamford shook it, and they wondered down the path together.

They made small talk for a little bit. John was struck by how _nice_ it was for a change. He had become rather brisk in the past year or so, he knew, but he hadn't really noticed the difference until today.

“... We've been married for thirteen years next June.” Stamford beamed, and John couldn't help but smile back. It was nice to find someone who was truly happy with their situation in life.

“What about you, eh?” Stamford continued. “You have a girlfriend? Wife?” He winked at John conspiratorially. “ _Boyfriend?_ ”

John gave a tight smile and tried to keep the bitterness out of his laughter. “I can't find one who fits my standards.” 

Well, that was one way of putting it. He couldn't hold down a relationship with anyone. But he missed having someone around. On impulse, John continued with, “I wouldn't mind a flatmate, though, keep things interesting. You wouldn't know anyone who would mind moving in with a forty year old ex military doctor?”

Stamford grinned. “It's funny you should mention it...”

John wasn't certain if he should tell Mike that he wasn't actually being serious, but a look at the smile on the other man's face told him otherwise. Mike wanted to be useful. So John smiled tightly and limped next to his old friend as they walked back to the school he'd attended before any of this had happened. 

Back before he'd joined the army and been wounded and had discovered a curious person who hadn't been a person in any biological sense of the word at all.

He was a different person than he had been when he'd first stood on those steps, twenty years ago.

He sighed and climbed the steps after Mike, who waited patiently for him and then scanned his key card to get in to the building. 

The fluorescent lighting was far too bright, and John winced at some memories which battered against his mind. 

Then Mike turned into a room labelled 'morgue', and John stopped dead. He was distantly aware of Mike saying something, but to John's ears, it was like the noise was muffled by a fuzz.

Sherlock was standing behind a microscope, intently staring at the slide below.

John couldn't stop the name from falling from his lips. “Sherlock...”

Sherlock froze. His eye's flickered to John's.

“John.”

  
  


  
  


A brain is nothing more than an organically grown computer. The time it took to become as complex as it is spans many millenia, but the brain is still a computer. We inherit ways of thinking from our parents, in that some neural pathways are much easier to access than others. Twins, even if separated will find they have more similarities than differences, and is due to this pre-programming. We have short term and long-term memory, just as a computer does. We have circuit boards in the form of neurons. Both brains and computers send signals along their circuits(or neural networks) with electrical charges. 

There are a number of differences, certainly. Brains heal better than computers do, though they are both very delicate. The materials used are completely different, for another thing. And frankly, the memory recall of the brain could learn a thing or two from computers.

Then why are we alive while computers are not? The answer (presently) is simple: because they are not nearly complex enough.

The criteria for life are as follows: the ability to use energy, to grow, and reproduce, to have different levels of organization, to respond to stimulus, to adapt to their environment, and finally, to be composed of cells.

If we were to build a computer advanced enough, it could meet every one of the criteria save for the last. Materials matter from a biological stand point. 

By the above criteria, sponges are considered alive. Just to clarify: the standing of sponges is not being argued. We wouldn't allow sponges to vote, but we'd still consider them alive, which is more than most would do of even the most complex computer system.

  
  


  
  


John felt his leg begin to whine in pain and leaned forward on his cane. 

“They said... Mycroft. Mycroft said you wouldn't remember me.”

Sherlock's eyes darkened. “ _Mycroft._ ” he spat. “Yes. Yes, he would do.” At John's questioning look, he continued. 

“Mycroft has been under the impression that you are dangerous to me for some time. I had not known his dislike ran so deep.” he paused. “When I awoke, Mycroft informed me that you'd had a change of heart. That you'd seen too much...”

  
  


  
  


“ _Mycroft? Where is John? Did they capture him? We have to go back!”_

_Mycroft levelled his gaze at Sherlock. When you are a Holmes, conversations happen without a word needing to be spoken._

“ _Oh.” Sherlock sagged slightly, looking lost. But he'd thought...“Oh.”_

“ _The life you lead is not for everyone, Sherlock. I gave him an out and he took it. It was a kindness.”_

_Mycroft gave Sherlock as sincere a look as he was capable of giving. 'You know that Moriarty only went after you to prove that he could out-think you, don't you Sherlock?”_

_Sherlock nodded. In his 'captivity' he'd slowly come to realize that Moriarty's madness was matched only by his lust to prove himself king._

“ _If you are to consider a life outside of the facility, you should not trust so easily.”_

_Sherlock shot his brother a side glance. That sentence had layers underneath it. He shouldn't have trusted Moriarty so easily. He shouldn't trust that the facility would be willing to free him or treat him as human, now that they knew he was a creature of emotion._

_He should not be as trusting of John as he still was, despite John leaving him here._

“ _I hope you will consider government work a satisfactory alternative to slavery, Sherlock.”_

  
  


  
  


“And then I couldn't step outside without being legally brought back to dance for those fools at the research centre.” He swallowed. “Mycroft bought me out. I am legally owned by the government.”

Sherlock sighed. “It is a small price to pay to be able to touch.” he tore his eyes from John and stared at the table as if willing it to melt. “I should have known you better. Mycroft showed me how you were doing from the CCTV outside your surgery. You seemed so... complete without me. You had your practice and a new start. I didn't want to spoil it for you.” 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment and met John's eyes again, his face betraying the anguish he'd been through over the course of a year. “I didn't think you wanted to see me until now.” He gave John a fond grin. “John, your face is an open book. I have never been so glad for that.”

John swallowed and took a few steps forward. 

  
  


  
  


There are some who state that any machine which 'gains consciousness' would be merely the result of a very complex simulation, not true sentience. This is untrue; perhaps in the beginning it may be nothing more than a sophisticated mimic, but if the machine retains the ability to learn and grow and react to the environment it is placed in, there is no reason it should not be classed as an independent being capable of unique thought. 

  
  


  
  


When John closed him eyes sometimes at night, he saw Sherlock's face, serene and still. And now Sherlock was here, and it didn't change the fact that, although John had done it for the right reasons, He had left Sherlock behind.

His mind flashed to a dark field out in the middle of nowhere, cradling Sherlock's head in his hands.

“ _I didn't want to be a burden. And I didn't want you to think I'd be too much trouble and leave me behind.”_ John remembered how broken Sherlock had been when he whispered those words.

He had to at least _try_ to explain.

“Sherlock,” John began, choosing his words carefully. “I thought you wouldn't remember me. If you have one person who remembers everything and another who remembers nothing, the one with no memory spends all their time trying to live up to the expectations that the person they were before had, if that makes any sense.” 

John's thought process was already fairly muddled, but at Sherlock's nod he continued. 

“I didn't want you to feel you owed me anything when you didn't remember me. I wanted you to live your life without trying to please someone you had no memory of ever knowing. I thought you deserved the chance to start fresh. I...” his voice broke and John took a breath before continuing, trying to avoid eye contact.

“I should have stayed anyway. It was selfish of me. I just didn't want to look in your eyes and see nothing when you looked at me.” He swallowed thickly. “and then to know that it was because I _forgot_ that you couldn't run more than a couple of minutes.” he tried to keep most of the bitterness in his voice from showing too much, but it still bled through.

He felt a cool hand on his cheek tilt his face upward. “John, you are not to blame. I never blamed you.”

He met Sherlock's eyes (when did he get so close?) and nodded. It was odd, the way a few words could make your soul feel lighter.

And then, small audience still completely forgotten, John leaned up and kissed Sherlock. 

He was dimly aware of an “Oh!” from Stamford and a small squeak from the lab technician.

When they separated, He heard a delighted, “So you know each other, then?” from Stamford.

John grinned. “Yes. We do.”

  
  


  
  


At the simplest level, our humanity is based on two things: our ability to form relationships of any sort, and our need to make sense of the world. Every thing we are which makes us different stems from these. 

Emotion is sometimes believed to be nothing more than a way or making our interactions go smoothly. Love is a good way to make us feel bonded, sadness comes from the absence of something which gave us pleasure. Whether that thing is an idea, a dream, a person, or even just something which struck a warm chord within you, sadness can be defined as that vacancy. These emotions, no matter how bright or shadowy they become, bind us together and give us that shared experience. 

Art and science, two things which lend humanity it's vibrancy arise from the need to understand, catalogue, and reduce our understanding of the world down to it's simplest level. And then we rebuild the world to suit our own standards, whether we change the world with a story, or an emotional painting, or even just physically changing the environment around us. 

The term 'humanity' is a broad concept, applied to a great many different things in life. But the question is, do we define our humanity on an emotional level or on a biological level? The more logical amongst us might immediately answer 'biological', but when we look at the things we class as being 'human' we find they fall under the emotional category. 

If someone has emotion enough to be human, does that not mean they have the right to be treated as one might a fellow human, even if they are not the same on a molecular level?

If someone has the ability to love, human or not, what right do we have to tell them we do not believe their feelings to be true? What right have we to take that away?

**Author's Note:**

> A shout out to my sister, darth_bexter, for being the reading equivalent of the test-audience.  
> Beta'd by my best friend and mortal enemy, frenchfrysplash.


End file.
